A Week's Worth

Bare trees root the dark mirror.

At last light bone moon echoes

give the surface false depth and fall

away. The river balks at the horizon

something loosens in you. Black

between stars holding out their pale fire,

reaches the pitch of letting go

of a slow white rose, blooms from                                                      

your crown— a stream of crossed

faces. Palms press from over the water

to comfort. The presence of those who’ve gone,

and those left behind will receive

your pale flower petal and thorn.

The garden gate is open— in the early

light rain will taper, still to a mirror.

Bare trees reflect in your sun-struck eye.